You don't know anything, apart from what you read in the paper. You seem to be the only person in the world that the papers get bang to rights. If they say you've slept with a fifteen-year-old, you have. If they say you've fallen over drunk in the street, you have. They don't need to invent stuff for you. This was actually quite an acute observation. She was right: not once have I been the victim of misrepresentation or distortion. If you think about it, that was one of the most humiliating aspects of the last few years. The papers have been full of shit about me, and every word of the shit was true.
The narrator reflects on how the media's portrayal of him aligns disturbingly with reality. He recognizes that the press has not misrepresented his actions; rather, they have depicted his life accurately, revealing a sense of shame over his own behavior. Both the public and the narrator see him through the lens of sensationalist headlines, leading him to confront the uncomfortable truth about his choices and the consequences that ensue.
This realization strikes him as both profound and humiliating, as he considers the implications of being portrayed as someone devoid of integrity or dignity. It raises questions about identity and how much of it is shaped by external perceptions. Ultimately, the narrator grapples with the overwhelming sense that he has unwittingly lived up to the very worst of what the media has claimed about him.
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All the things you can talk about in anyone's work are the things that are least important.
Race of Cain, ascend to heaven, And cast God down upon the earth!
